Pod life. Credit: Getty.

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” wrote Joan Didion. She was referring to our conscious selves, during waking hours, but our unconscious minds also tell us stories so that we can live. This involuntary, instinctive, subconscious storytelling occurs during dreams, a phenomenon that evolved relatively late in the evolution of life, in birds and mammals.
Of the primates, humans spend the most time dreaming: 20-25% of sleep. Sigmund Freud’s probably erroneous theory that dreams are unconscious, censored, unfulfilled wishes, to be analysed and interpreted for their true meaning, has dominated culture for more than a century. But since the Sixties, many other dream purposes have been theorised, tested, and confirmed.
In newborns, dreams stimulate neurons to form networks. In children and adults, dreams rehearse coping behaviours; convert new learning and experiences into long-term memory; assist in problem-solving and creativity; maintain and update our unique identities; and allow for emotional acuity, so that we don’t slip into fear bias, viewing neutral facial expressions as menacing.
My favourite dream purpose is that dreams improve mood. Called the “mood regulatory function of dreams theory”, this covert, complex, antidepressant effect was most researched and elucidated by Rosalind Cartwright (1922-2021), a psychologist and neuroscientist known as the Queen of Dreams.
Over a period of 40 years, beginning in the Sixties, Cartwright did a series of studies on depressed people. “I wanted to study whether there is a natural healing process that could be detected in dreams,” she wrote in The Twenty-Four Hour Mind (2011). She had people sleep overnight in her lab, where she repeatedly woke and interviewed them about their dreams. She found that dreams were filled with negative, troubling material, but that they became increasingly positive throughout the night, “drawing together more and more remote associations”. By morning people felt happier, calmer, and better prepared to live.
I hadn’t heard of this auspicious purpose, which doesn’t seem to have ever been theorised before the 20th century, until I read Cartwright’s book. When we get a full night’s sleep, our minds tell us around two hours of interconnected stories over three to five dreams, cycling between NREM — non-rapid-eye-movement — and REM sleep. The process “works well only if sleep is intact, regular, and long enough to complete its nightly tasks”, wrote Cartwright. If we interrupt our mind’s storytelling, each night is like one to three disturbing, depressing, nihilistic short stories, instead of one weird, fantastical, autobiographical, ultimately uplifting novel.
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